He burrowed his head into my chest and let out an exasperated sound. “Oh, Christ,” he said, and then got up and grabbed for his clothes, muttering something about being stupid. Stupid vacuums. Stupid girls. Soon his pants were on, his belt buckled. Only then did it occur to me that he hadn’t used protection.

“This never happened,” he said, gesturing to me, to my naked body. “You don’t tell anyone, I don’t tell anyone. Got it?”

I didn’t know what to say. My tongue was a dead thing, dry and dusty in my mouth.

Eventually the front door opened and closed. He was already out of earshot when I asked, “Where are you going?” He’d left the vacuum behind and it stared at me with its singular, prehistoric eye. A monster from another world.

Everything grew still—as static as a bulb growing deep underground. This is how I felt: like an onion bulb, naked and smooth and surrounded by dirt. Alone. For a moment, I felt as if I might burst open, shoot green tendrils from my fingertips until they found Ruby—her fingers, her wrist, her neck. I wanted to call her and tell her what had happened, but of course I couldn’t. There was nobody I could talk to, not a single person in the entire world. Eventually, I felt an itch beneath my right big toe. Outside, a mourning dove began to coo.

There was little to think of that did not hurt, and so I focused instead on the carpet. In his exit, Earl had stomped in the pile of glitter, sending up a cloud of sparkling debris. How pretty, I thought, letting my mind focus on the glitter. I knew that at some point, I would have to get up and clean it.

Thousand-Dollar Decoy

In the dream, the mallard on Elliot’s chest weighs a hundred pounds, if not a thousand. It is crushing his lungs. He cannot breathe. He tries to turn, but he cannot turn. He cannot even move—the mallard is too heavy. It smells of algae and cut grass and is not without a hint of cuteness, the curve of its yellow beak forming a timid smile. Its eyes are liquid black and in them Elliot’s terror is reflected back to him. In time, he discovers that his hands are free. With great effort, he brings them to the mallard’s green neck. The iridescent feathers are smooth as skin beneath his grip. Elliot squeezes as hard as he can. He knows his life depends on it.

When he wakes, he finds that he is strangling his girlfriend, Alice. A low gurgling noise bubbles up from her throat and fills their dark studio apartment. This is only their first night in the apartment. Most of their possessions are still in the cardboard boxes that line the wall opposite their bed. Before they went to sleep, Alice had listed off all the things she wanted to do in the morning: hang pictures, assemble the closet organizer, locate her mother’s china to make sure nothing had broken. Then, they had made love. Elliot had felt light with happiness as he drifted into sleep, Alice in his arms. Everything was exactly as he wanted it to be, down to the placement of the bed, which was centered against a wall instead of pressed into a corner to economize space. He’d never lived with a woman before, but now he was with Alice—living with Alice—and the bed belonged to both of them, an equal possession that required equal access. They were adults, and they were in love. They were sharing a bed. They each had their own nightstand.